THE clock on the wall above the clerk's head indicated half past five, and Anthony, relinquishing hope for the day, rose. Now he regretted the apparently fruitless expenditure of a dollar. “Leave an address?” the clerk inquired mechanically. “Office open at nine.”

“I'll be back,” Anthony told him. He turned, and collided with a man entering suddenly from the street. He was past middle age, with a long, pallid countenance, drooping snuff-colored mustache, a preoccupied gaze behind bluish glasses, and was clad in correct brown linen, but wore an incongruously battered and worn soft hat.

“I want a man to drive my car,” he announced abruptly. “I don't particularly care for a highly expert individual, but his habits—” he broke off, and muttered, “superficial adjustment to environment—popular conception of acquired characteristics.” Then, “must be moderate,” he ended unexpectedly.

Anthony lingered, while the clerk assured the other that several highly desirable individuals were available. “In fact,” he told him, “one left the office only a few minutes ago; I will have him call upon you in the morning.”

“What's this?” he replied, indicating Anthony; “is he a chauffeur?” The clerk nodded. “But,” he added, “the man I refer to is older, more experienced... sure to satisfy you.”

“What references have you?” the prospective employer demanded.

“None,” Anthony answered directly. The clerk dismissed his chances with a gesture.

“What experience?” the other persisted. “Driving on and off for four or five years, and I am a fair mechanic.”

“Fair only?”

“That's all, sir.”

The older man drew nearer to Anthony, scrutinizing him with a kindly severity. “What's the matter with your head?” he demanded.

“I was knocked down and robbed on a country road.”

“Lose much?”

“Everything.”

“Drinking?”

“No, sir.”

“Familiar with prehistoric geological strata?” Anthony admitted that he was not.

“I had hoped,” the other murmured, “to get a driver who could assist me with my indices.” He renewed his close inspection, then, “Elemental,” he pronounced suddenly; “I'll take you.”

“Five dollars, please,” interpolated the clerk. Outside his new employer took Anthony by the shoulder, glancing over his suit. “You can get your things, and then go out to my house.”

“I can go sooner than that,” Anthony corrected him. “I have no things.”

“Nothing but those clothes! Why... they will hardly do, will they? You must get something, take it out of your salary. But, hang it, a man must have a change of clothes! You must allow me—you are only a boy. I'll come along; no—impossible.” He took a long wallet from his pocket and placed it in Anthony's hands. “I don't know what such things cost,” he said. “I think there's enough; get what you need. I must be off... Mousterian deposits. Customs House.” Before Anthony could reply he had started away in a long, quick stride, but he stopped short. “My address,” he cried, “clean forgot.” He gave Anthony a street and number.

“Rufus Hardinge,” he called, hurrying away.

Anthony stood gazing in incredulous surprise at the polished, brown wallet in his hand. He turned to hurry after the other, to protest, but already he was out of sight. Anthony slipped the wallet in his pocket, and, his head in a whirl, walked slowly over the street until he found himself opposite a large retail clothing establishment. After a brief hesitation he entered, pausing to glance hastily at his resources. In the leather pocket which contained the paper money he saw a comfortable number of crisp yellow bills; the rest of the space was taken up by bulky and wholly unintelligible notes.

He purchased a serviceable suit, stout shoes, a cap, and, after a short consideration, two flannel shirts. If this were not satisfactory, he concluded, he could pay with a portion of his salary. The slip of the total amount, which he carefully folded, registered thirty-one dollars and seventy cents.

At a small tobacco shop, where he drew upon his own rapidly diminishing capital, he discovered from the proprietor that it would be necessary to take a suburban car to the address furnished him. He rolled rapidly between rows of small, identical, orderly brick dwellings; on each shallow portico a door exhibited an obviously meretricious graining; dingy or garish curtains draped the single lower windows; the tin eaves were continuous, unvaried, monotonous. Occasionally a greengrocer's display broke the monotony of the vitreous way, a rare saloon or drugstore held the corners. Farther on the street suffered a decline, the line of dwellings was broken by patches of bedraggled gardens, set with the broken fragments of stone ornaments; small frame structures, streaked by the weather and blistered remnants of paint, alternated with stables, stores heaped with the sorry miscellanies of meager, disrupted households. Imperceptibly green spaces opened, foliage fluttered in the orange light of the declining sun; through an opening in the habited wall he caught sight of a glimmering stream, cows wandering against a hill.

He left the car finally at a lane where the houses, set back solidly in smooth, opulent lawns, were somberly comfortable, reserved. The place he sought, a four-square ugly dwelling faced with a tower, the woodwork painted mustard yellow, was surrounded by gigantic tulip poplars. At the front a cement basin caught the spray from a cornucopia held aloft by sportive cherubs balanced precariously on the tails of reversed dolphins, circled by a tan-bark path to the entrance and a broad side porch. He was about to ring the bell when a high, young voice summoned him to the latter. There he discovered a girl with a mass of coppery hair, loosely tied and streaming over her shoulder, in a coffee-colored wicker chair. She was dressed in white, without ornaments, and wore pale yellow silk stockings. A yellow paper book, with a title in French, was spread upon her lap; and, gravely sitting at her side, was a large terrier with a shaggy yellow coat.

“I suppose,” she said without preliminary, “that you are the person who took father's money. It was really unexpected of you to appear with any of it. Give me the wallet,” she demanded, without allowing him opportunity for a reply.

He gave it to her without comment, a humorous light rising in his clear gaze. “I warn you,” she continued, “I know every penny that was in it. I always give him a fixed amount when he goes out.” She emptied the money into her lap, and counted it industriously: at the end she wrinkled her brow.

“Here is a note of what I spent,” he informed her, tendering her the slip from the store. She scanned it closely. “That's not unreasonable,” she admitted finally, palpably disappointed that no villainous discrepancy had been revealed; “and it adds up all right.” Then, with an assumption of business despatch, “It must come out of your salary, of course; father is frightfully impractical.”

“Of course,” he assented solemnly.

“Your references—”

“I haven't any.”

She made an impatient gesture of dismay; the terrier rose and surveyed him with a low growl. “He promised me that he would do the thing properly, that I positively need not go. What experience have you had?”

He told her briefly.

“Dreadfully unsatisfactory,” she commented, “and you are oceans too young. But... we will try you for one week; I can't promise any more. Would you be willing to help a little in the house—opening boxes, unwrapping bones—?”

“Certainly,” he assured her cheerfully, “any little thing I can do....”

“The car's at the bottom of the garden, it has to be brought around by the side street. There's a room overhead, and a bell from the house. You must come up very quickly if, in the night, it rings three times, for that,” she informed him, “will mean burglars. My father and I are quite alone here with two women. I can't think of anything else now.” The terrier moved closer to Anthony, sniffing at his shoes, then raised his golden eyes and subjected him to a lengthy, thoughtful scrutiny. “That is Thomas Huxley,” she informed him; “he is a perfectly wonderful investigator, and detests all sentimentality. You will come up to the kitchen for meals,” she called, as Anthony turned to descend the lawn; “the bell will ring for your dinner.”